January 11th

We report on the road, after our expert filled the petrol tank. Our fingers jump across clouds behind the window, the way we used to do it as a child; it is still covered in droplets of past heavy rain, weeping sideways from the speed. The wet road looks like it is on fire.

January 10th

We report: when we come here, we know it will be much windier than everywhere else, and in the winter, the ocean wind is always harsh. It gets in our ears and rearranges every thought and memory we have ever had, until we too feel like wind and water. This is why we come here.

January 9th

We report: we think of the weather as alive, always, but today especially. There was a storm last night, and the sky is still sorting itself out from the mess it caused. It is raining disorderly, in short bursts. There, between two clouds, the sun finds room enough to shine.

January 8th

We report: over time, we have taken to collecting the small incidental waves caused by the Kelvin Helmholtz instability. Not too differently to four-leaf clovers, we superstitiously imagine that our being there and then, looking for it, is bound to bring us good luck.

January 7th

We report: on the way home, we look for high ground to watch the sunset, hoping it is not nightfall when we find it. It feels familiar, walking fast in brisk weather for a moment of colours. We never find the right spot, and we realise our two eyes are not enough to see it well.

January 6th

We report in those very cold hours of the almost-morning. The snow is untouched on the fields, barely any fox tracks in the hollows of the furrows when we look carefully. The wind is moving the clouds along, and the sky is already less opaque than it was yesterday.

January 5th

We report in the mid-afternoon: we have been keeping track of the weather acoustically today. It is all in the nuances of the muffled sounds of the rain versus the sharp attack of the hail, and the freezing rain somewhere in between. If there was snow, we missed it.

January 4th

We report: so far today, no rain, no hail, and the wind is awfully dry too. We have chosen this day for a walk, thinking of the clear weather as great conditions. That it is, but we are feeling the chill on our face very well. We carry a sun glare in the corner of our teary eyes.

January 3rd

We report after a shower of fine hail: we thought the night would have well and truly fallen once the sky cleared. We now realise that since the solstice, we have gained a handful of minutes of sunlight. It is still practically nothing, but we are eager to notice these things.

January 2nd

We report: there is a lunar corona tonight, and this is the first time we are able to observe one so closely. When it is a solar corona, even the darkest of sunglasses cannot help us see it. We feel just fine watching the moon; we only have to accept that it is looking back.

January 1st

We report well-immersed in the brand new clouds of the brand new year. And it is what it is, because the year is so very new, everything in it is quite new, including the mud from yesterday's walk, still caked on our boots. We try to hold on to the shininess of the moment.

December 31st

We report: this is a bluebird day. It went below freezing last night, and when we got out this morning, there were icicles on branches, and a thin layer of ice on puddles. The sky is big and empty; we can only assume this year is all out of clouds, which is only fair.

December 30th

We report from high in the clouds, where there is warmth in the perishing light, and where things move fast in a way that makes sense. For this little while, we do not think about the tiredness of dark days, and the languor that the cold has wrapped our bones in.

December 29th

We report: we have seen this bright, bright spot in the sky enough times over the past few days that we remembered to ask our expert what planet it is. This is Jupiter, bracketed by Gemini and Canis Minor. We spend some time imagining we can see the storm raging on its surface.

December 28th

We report as we are losing blue sky to this cumulonimbus. It has been noted throughout the day that it is still quite cold, which our expert attributes to the mean sea-level pressure remaining high throughout the week. We think it should snow, if only because we would like it.

December 27th

We report: the gorse shrubs are flowering under the cold sun in fat yellow blooms. The wind carries a smell of honey when we walk by too close, and the thorns catch in our hair and clothes. The blue sky falls in deep puddles in the middle of our path. We have to step around it.

December 26th

We report a few minutes before sunset: it seems to us the sun has been hovering there for a long time. We almost fall on our face several times for our staring at it to the side, but it is simply not moving. But then, of course, we look away for a moment, and it disappears.

December 25th

We report: all the snow and the ice came in the very last hours of the night. It is a paper thin layer on the ground, and it will likely melt when the sun comes out, but the view is arresting nonetheless. Our expert is trying hard to contain their excitement, unsuccessfully.

December 24th

We report late in the morning: the clouds are taking root, big old trees casting enough shade to make it look like dusk. In the leaden sky, we find whispers of snow. It has been cold for days now, has had time to settle in. It burns our nose and the tips of our fingers.

December 23rd

We report: it has stopped raining, and the sky has cleared out some, but it is not quite sunny yet. The humidity is still shimmering in the air, even though the wind is now coming in strong; it is cold like this. The clouds are being diluted into liquid shapes up there.